MY SITE
LEO Literary Journal Issue Two
July 2023
"You Looked Up" By Jenny Olson
You looked up
I looked back
And my world shifted
You smiled
I smiled back
You bought me a drink
The already broken me had been picked
You said let’s go, come with me
I asked where?
You said to the city
I asked what would we do there?
You said
You will make more money that you can imagine
We’ll have fun
You left
I followed (after the broken me slept with your best friend the night before)
I arrive and things were rocky, but you still took care care of me
I made money
We had a blast
We had a son
The beatings started
So bad I couldn’t work
So bad I’d end up in the hospital, from kicks to my kidneys
Broken fingers
Locked in the closest terrified for my life, while you pissed on me
I was so broken I couldn’t stop what I was doing
The drug use got worse
Rikers instead of being bailed out at court
The tracks changed
For every hotel we lived in
For every room I fucked in
Part of me broke
I took our son and left walked away with a habit
Came back home
You followed me here
12 years latter we married
Raised a family
We normal people with broken pieces
But we weren’t normal you were still controlling me
Then you got sick
Then you died and I found you
Then all I am left with is standing in the midst
Of the shattered parts of me
"Embodiment" By Jenny Olson
I am an embodiment of love
Various shapes and various forms
Street love
Trick hotels
Inside of cars
Fancy hotels
Back at home
Trauma bond
I am an embodiment of love
Pure love, mother love
Pure love friend love
Pure love Grammie love
I am an embodiment of love
And oh so new to me self love
I am an embodiment of love
Be careful it’s a new love
Be careful it’s a new love
"Life Of Contradiction" By Jenny Olson
Who was I then?
Who am I now?
A hooker in a business suit?
Who would have thought
The little girl trying to be grownup
What an imposter she was
A businesswoman in a business suit
Who would have thought
Her past pushed far in the back so no one would know
What an imposter she was
An addict just trying to get high
Who would have thought
But they all, all knew didn’t they?
What an imposter she was
A mother trying to be like the others
Who would have thought
Everything shoved so deep inside her
What an imposter she was
A student trying to fit it
Who would have thought
She had lived such another life
What an imposter she was
She sits an old lady
Who would have thought
She lived such a life of contradiction
She feeds her birds
She walks her dogs
She lunches with friends
All behind this wall of a life of contradiction
Jenny Olson is a semi-retired widow. Her writing journey has only recently started as a means to process her years of abuse, sex work, and addiction. Her husband died two years ago after twenty five years of marriage, with a prior 12 years in New York City where he abused her and was her pimp. Her story leads from the streets, to two Master Degrees and a Doctorate, a successful corporate career and mother of three, grammie to five. She has struggled with addiction and has 22 years clean with two relapses and is now back in recovery.
"Morning Scroll" By Rhea Melina
Might not be worth it
Sun is rising and this coffee is divine
Why’d I have to ruin it?
I don’t usually fall into Buzzfeed
But for some reason I caught myself deep
scrolling through AI interpretations of people from each US State
I’m checking out
how beaten down
each AI American looks
Knowing my state will be one of the last in alphabetical order
Wondering if they are gonna get our flannels right but they didn’t even put
Washingtonians in flannels, and although one of us appears mixed race, and therefore
more youthful, we look just as beaten down and tired as the wrinkly white Kansans
and Oklahomans
And I realized that just because we don’t live in a dust bowl doesn’t mean we don’t
work our fingers to the bone
Our coffee might be better but doesn’t
Get us any further in the rat race
My hamster wheel is placed right in front
Of a scenic view of Puget Sound
I can see the mountains, the skyscrapers and the sea from my glass cage
They pay me just enough to keep me alive in here chasing the American Dream
and self-medicating to turn it off at night
Parallel to my jaw line is not a pitchfork
But a passive aggressive middle finger
Playing off this “fuck you” as a hair toss
Not really, I imagined that part
But what is AI besides an extension of our imagination?
If anything it’s exemplary of the human genius— Broken, skewed and hollow
I don’t wanna be so shallow
Hoping the machine will confirm
That I’m living
But not one AI American
In this series
appears to be thriving
It’s those sci fi ones that do
And unless fi ain’t short for fiction
That’s just fantasy
For real we out here
unable to catch our breaths
Just trying to get by
Throwing phones against the wall
Wondering how we got here
"Identity (#methree)" By Rhea Melina
I can’t tell you why I didn’t see
it coming--
the inevitable gaslighting of any
and all of us with voices
Voices that cry out
Voices that name
Voices that tell the truth
I was so hopeful when
I too, posted #metoo but now again I’m afraid to speak, maybe it’s worse now
Ears have heard enough
Eyes have read enough
Yet I still clutch my keys between my fingers and race a ghost to the car
Trying to look cool when inside I’m afraid for my life and what would come of my
daughter if I am again taken in the night
It’s like I used to be able to discern the abusers better, because they had more obvious
flaws, they said terrible things more clearly
I saw their crude jokes as bright colored fog spewing out their mouths at bars, at
supermarkets, and I could weave through isles and streets sometimes escaping them,
yet still sometimes I’d wake up next one and realize then I was in their grasp, I’d sneak
out before the light came and add their compliments to my list of what not to trust
But now they are all quiet
Especially the smart ones
The worst ones
And the good guys are afraid to tell me I’m beautiful
The static has been replaced with dead air
I am a survivor with a voice, I’m still here
80 percent of sexual assaults are committed by an acquaintance
It’s not paranoia for me to be aware
90 percent of sexual assault victims are women
It’s not reverse sexism for a woman to want friendship first
BIPOC women are more likely to be raped than white women, although all women are
targeted disproportionately to men
LGBTQIA are more likely to be victimized than straight folks
and when our language is taken from us, our names, our pronouns, our voices, we
have officially been dehumanized
Perhaps it’s a symptom of social media
The world has a short attention span
So the movement flatlined
Leaving abusers high-fiving
over our dead posts, even though only 2.5 percent of all sexual assault claims have
been proven to be false
The reckoning barely begun and already the crowd is bored
Ain’t you?
Don’t you want me to tell you
Something New?
Me too, #methree
Rhea Melina is a multi-ethnic poet and spoken word artist residing in Seattle. Her latest chapbook, A Place To Put Things, is available from Bottlecap Press. Connect with her on Instagram @rheamelina
"Fallen" By Elizabeth Gade
center stage
legs spread
center of the bed
hardened edges soften
in the flickering ambiance
of a dozen lit candles
spotlighted
as I stroke the vulnerable underside
of his exposed male ego
lost in a scented
haze of sweat
hot wax and
expensive
perfume
the heat of his palm
threatens to burn down
the small
of my back
and I press against
the cool metal contrast
of his
wedding ring
we both thirst
we both seek relief
of a different nature
coating the insides
of our mouths with champagne
that foams and fizzes
but quenches nothing
I open to them
these men staking their claim
but still naive to so many
shut doors
inside of me
that bar their entrance
buried in soft flesh
sinking life
bare feet
caught
in shifting sand
they imprint my skin
with a multitude
of smudged fingerprints
my soul
smeared like a dirty
windowpane
I watch
as he moves over me
and I take flight
traveling
to find solace
in solitude filled places of my past
he's here
but in my mind
I'm walking softly down
pine needle carpeted paths
Eve paved the way
generations
of fallen women
whores and harlots
cast out of the garden
stigmatized by
society
political perversions
when prosecuted by the same
public figures who pay
for it on the sly
flesh of the apple
replaced
by the temptation of
cold hard
cash
invisible
important parts
of my inner self
sold
unable to get
back
men took
but I gave too feely
everyone has a price
and I've paid mine
mistress
of the moment
well-kept and compensated
by the hour
a perfectly coifed
hollow shell
of my
former
self
well versed
in current events
and proper table manners
but unable to speak
my mind
brittle smile
breaking
I wait for the rising tide
of my oil laced bathwater
to wash away
all traces
of him
unclean currency
counted by the hundreds
and stuffed into a plain white envelope
mocks me from the marble topped
bathroom counter
and leaves me
feeling
counterfeit
outside my window
is a dazzling display
a modern day mirage
swathed
in a velvet gown of darkness
the heaving bosom of this city
that never sleeps
necklaced
in glittering gaudy lights
reminding me that
even the most beautiful
man-made stars
fail
burn out and
fall
shattering
on the dirty pavement
29 stories below
what is there left to lose
besides love
already bought
and paid
for
Elizabeth Gade is a rural Minnesota based bisexual poet and human trafficking survivor. Writing is her radical way to connect with fellow survivors. Her poems have been published in View Magazine, The Elevation Review, 300 Days Of Sun, Other Worldly Women Press, Sober Girls Yoga Magazine, Exist Otherwise & more. Elizabeth created LEO Literary Journal, an online journal dedicated to women writers affected by incarceration, addiction and/or domestic violence. www.LeoLiteraryJournal.Weebly.com She is also the creator and host of Survived To Write, a survivor led writing circle on Zoom for human trafficking survivors. Connect with her on Instagram @ElizabethGadeThePoet and @SurvivedToWrite
"We’re not so different" By Anahi Cabrera Luciano
When it comes down to you and me,
You were always the flower,
While I was the weed.
You were adored by others and
loved for your beauty
while mine was overlooked and
stepped on.
You were the diamond that shined
so brightly, that you blinded every single
thing that stood next to you, and how you
made it known. As I was the one next to you.
A grain of salt doesn’t compare to the beauty
you held.
I was never a match.
While many surrounded you, I was left
in the dust, forgotten. Forgotten as soon as I was seen.
Even though we aren’t much different.
We are both a part of this earth, that is
so vastly unknown.
Yet our worth is so different.
But what’s so different about you and me?
Where does the line begin or end?
For you to be treated like a queen and for me to be treated
like a foul beast.
"Child" By Anahi Cabrera
Sometimes I have to remind myself that I was a child that grew up in an abusive household
and that reacting the way I do is not my fault. I have to remind myself that not everything is
my fault. That flinching or dissociating is not my fault. That I was a child who was neglected
of any love growing up, and that is one of the reasons I tend to be cautious about the love
people show me. It’s unknown territory. I was a child that was neglected in all sorts of ways,
so not eating and not showering are signs that it’s getting bad. I was a child who was told to
shut up when they would show an ounce of negative emotion, and I have to remind myself
that it’s okay to feel upset at things. I have to remind myself that being upset and angry or
frustrated aren’t taboo. I have to remind myself that even though I wasn’t shown love, I have
to love myself, I have to love myself so that I can fulfill the dreams of a loveless child. A child
that begged to be loved and to be free to do the things that now I am capable of doing.
"The older sister"By Anahi Cabrera
There are two truths to this world when it comes to being the oldest sister in a family.
One. No matter if you have an older brother, you are expected to provide for them, and bend at
every beck and call.
Two. The weight of the whole family is on their shoulders, and you are under appreciated.
When I was younger, I used to always ask myself why my older sister married earlier.
Why did she choose to leave us instead of staying with us?
I was young, and my young heart thought that we were being abandoned.
I felt betrayed, but what my young heart did not understand was that she too was a young child
that had been abandoned, so she turned to others for comfort.
As the weeks continued, I realized a lot. Little by little the rose tinted glasses started to clear up.
My sister had filled the role of a mother that our mother did not play.
She was a young child that was thrown into the life of a mother without having kids of her own.
Her childhood was wasted on taking care of crying kids who were so ungrateful and were able to
enjoy their childhood, while hers slipped through her, close within reach, but like a forbidden
fruit unable to reach.
And like an avalanche, I remembered.
I remembered the stressed cries she used to shout at our mother and father, yelling. “They’re not
my kids! Not my responsibility”
Tears and sobs as she pulled her hair, stressed. “I’m a child too-- I’m your child” as her voice
broke and my mother with apathetic eyes stared at her first born as she broke down, once more
due to the pressure of society and the never ending expectations.
She was a child, a child who was forced to grow up too quickly, whose outbursts were treated as
tantrums, even though that’s what eight years olds do.
Who desperately wished for someone to see her for what she was, a child.
A child who desperately wanted to feel loved and cared for.
A child who wanted to leave, and rest.
A child that felt guilty for feeling upset at her siblings.
A stressed out child who just wanted an out.
A child who sobbed most nights in the dark, thinking no one could hear her.
A child who just wanted to leave.
When I was younger, I used to think that she had betrayed me, leaving me to deal with my
parents.
And I had been upset, but now--- now I know.
And how I wish I had realized sooner, so I could have offered the comfort she so desperately
deserved and yearned for.
"Words I’ll never say to: My Mother" By Anahi Cabrera
I can never and will probably never get the courage to tell you this.
I tried when I was younger, but you took it the wrong way.
But I feel sorry for you.
Sorry for the child you never got to be.
Sorry for the child that was lost due to the unfortunate circumstances that life dealt you.
That I pity the way that you were raised, yet you’re so intent in thinking that it was okay.
You were hurt beyond belief and the only way you were able to cope was by being delusional.
Delusional in the fact that none of what occurred to you was your fault.
Delusional in thinking what happened to you was the norm, when it really wasn’t.
I often tend to look at you in awe, and a bit of resent.
In awe because despite your circumstances you still view life in such a bright way.
And resentment because due to said circumstances, you lacked a lot when it came to raising your
own children.
While I cry for you because you were never allowed to be a child, I sob for myself because I
never got to be one either.
And I have conflicting emotions when it comes to you.
On one hand, I understand that emotionally, due to the circumstances that you were dealt, you
were never going to be emotionally there. But I also am conflicted due to how I was treated as a
child.
At times I sit alone in the dark, consumed by emotions, emotions that take a toll on me, as I try to
grasp just how I should feel about you, when you caused me so much pain. And yet I feel awful,
because you experienced it too.
Anahi Cabrera is twenty-three years old. She enjoys writing and reading just as much as she enjoys learning languages. She posts her work on Tik Tok @anahicabreraluciano and IG: localcreativewriter and is working on getting into law school and writing her manuscript.
"(NORMAL) LIKE A THING IS WHEN IT IS
ALL YOU’VE EVER KNOWN" By Laura Rockhold
after “1999” by Hala Alyan
I lived in a little blue house on what I was told
was a cornfield then suburb sprouting amid prairie grass
and the killdeer who distracts with wails and limps
in the direction away from her nest in a field of dust.
There were whole days of goldenrod and aster,
hunting monarchs, wooly bears and agates,
grit under my fingernails, and the scent of ladybugs
and the sticky white of milkweed on a fingertip.
I survived tornados flattening homes, lashing land, winds
howling like a freight train on rusted tracks. My mother
in the crawl space, prayers imploring mercy from
a punishing God, as my father remained
outside ridding his bluebird houses of “ugly” birds’ nests.
I climbed out my ground level window at night
and ran through what was left of tall grass.
∞
I lived in a big yellow house on what once was
Dakota land—indicated by one uninhabitable
plot where owners took their dogs to piss and shit.
There were whole days of irises and roses,
biking, canoeing, cross-country skiing,
school and working, working
to get out. I gave myself to a man
who would treat me like
my father. I survived by forgiving
and forgetting, denying, hiding and
painting what I hoped to see. I believed the heart
could not be trusted. Damage done, my mother
confided she never liked him for me.
I climbed out my second story window at night
and laid on the rooftop under unfiltered sky.
"DOUBLE BIND" By Laura Rockhold
you thought you freed yourself completely
but then the old you shows up—without warning
they tell you that your decades-ago-self shows up
on your dentist’s caller ID and you can’t breathe
over fallow reams of paperwork, forced
pleadings, infernal phone company flashing you
images of proof of theft: his latent fingerprints
your body marked and your face goes cold then
hot as a gut punch—and it’s like finding a tick
burrowed in the thin skin between your fingers
and you know the only way to get it out
is to light the fucker on fire
"FOUR CORDS" By Laura Rockhold
This is how I cut the cords. The first is a cobalt blue vinyl hose. It protrudes from
my left ovary. It feeds lies about my worth and siphons my voice. I use a hand
saw. A clean cut. I pull out the end connected to my ovary, fill the hole with
golden salve and patch it with luminescence to keep the healing in. The second is
a blood red bungee with a claw. It’s imbedded in the soft spot between my left
collarbone and shoulder. It controls my sense of safety and security. I clamp it to
prevent backlash and clip it with garden shears. I rub golden salve on the claw to
melt it enough to remove it without injury. I fill the hole with golden salve and
patch it with luminescence. The third is a black iron pipe screwed into my right
upper arm where his hand imprinted me. It’s oppressive, paralyzing. I sever it
with a chop saw, unscrew the end, fill the hole with golden salve and patch it with
luminescence. The fourth is a dark orange power cord. It’s plugged into my right
lower lung. It drains my joy and sovereignty. I unplug it, halve it with a wire
cutter so it can’t be used again. I fill the hole with golden salve and seal it with
healing luminescence. I yank the opposite ends free of their host who is writhing
in pus and tar. I patch him with golden salve and luminescence, since what good
would further infection do him? I rake up the pieces—the hose, bungee, claw,
pipe, screws, power cord and incinerate them with a blow torch until the sparks
are swallowed by the sky.
Laura Rockhold is a poet and visual artist living in Minnesota. She is the inventor of the golden root poetic form and recipient of the Bring Back The Prairies Award and Southern MN Poets Society Award. Her work is published or forthcoming in: Cider Press Review, The Hopper, The Ekphrastic Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, Black Fox Literary Magazine, RockPaperPoem, swifts & slows/Arteidolia and elsewhere. She is currently seeking publication of her first collection of poetry and working on a multidisciplinary art exhibition that explores the interconnectedness of environmental and social issues and healing. She holds a BS from the University of Minnesota. Her website is: www.laurarockhold.com.
"Millions of Ants" By C. J. Anderson-Wu
Just a few years ago, it was unimaginable that martyrdom for democracy could pertain to either
one of us, or even both of us. But now, I am consumed with frustration and unable to focus on
my daily routines. My daughter, Kasia, had finally been released from prison, and I had hoped
that her return would bring peace to our lives. However, her presence at home was bothered
by our own uncertainty and detachment.
Most days, Kasia retreated to her bedroom and remained quiet. I was left to wonder what she
was doing inside, afraid that she had become disconnected from the outside world or, worse
yet, that she had become entrenched in the world that had led to her imprisonment. And
where did I, her mother, fit into all of this? I had once been proud of her activism and
involvement in public affairs. When Kasia was just fifteen, she bravely protested the
nationalistic and moralistic curriculum being imposed on Hong Kong's elementary and high
schools. To us, this curriculum was nothing more than brainwashing that served no purpose in
Hong Kong. Eventually, the curriculum was withdrawn after students’ rigorous protests.
However, over the past few years, the Education Bureau had implemented various curricular
schemes without any public input. These courses emphasized official Chinese history and
outdated themes of family values packaged as civic affairs lessons. I couldn't help but wonder
why the Bureau failed to prioritize human rights. While they included topics regarding cultural
identity, history, and civic affairs, they neglected to address fundamental issues of human
dignity and freedom.
Anyway, the withdrawal of the brainwashing curriculum gave Kasia and her peers great
confidence, they felt they could accomplish anything. I was also optimistic, I supported Kasia’s
active participation in public affairs, and encouraged her to debate on issues that mattered.
But now, I can't help but wonder if my optimism was misplaced. Did I put Kasia in harm's way?
Was I to blame for her imprisonment and her current unease?
We must be too naive when we teach our young people to speak up for justice or defend
freedom, not only for ours, but also for that of others. It was the mentality of an open society
that had already attained freedom, like the US, Europe, Japan, South Korea and Taiwan. All
these societies had been through a long and bitter journey to earn their freedom, but for those
of us in Hong Kong, our long fight has just begun.
It is easy to fall into the illusion that victory is inevitable when we look at the successful
examples from history textbooks, biographies of historical figures, or political analyses by
historians. We may believe that constant protests, united with those who share our beliefs, will
ultimately lead to triumph. We romanticized past revolutions because the martyrs and
survivors who fought for change are long gone from our time, and we do not bear witness to
the immense sacrifices and struggles they had endured.
It can take a confined society decades of fighting to achieve liberation, yet a free society can fall
into the hands of dictatorship overnight. We never could have imagined that one day we had to
debate on whether carrying a flag with words such as "liberation" and "revolution" is an act of
terrorism or secession. Can a person terrorize the society or secede from the country by simply
tying a flag to their scooter?
If the government were not corrupt, if policy-making were transparent, and if politicians could
take in different ideas or listen to criticism without abusing their authority, who would feel the
needs to demonstrate in the rain or under the scorching sun to express their discontent or
disappointment? Fighting for one’s rights is not terrorism, it is not secession. Yet today, any
remark or action expressing one’s disagreement with the public affairs could be labeled as such,
and the responses of the authorities to dissident opinions were definitely more terrifying.
One night a couple of years ago, when Kasia and her friend Anthony were walking home
together after a group meeting, they were ambushed by three men in a small alleyway. The
assailants pinned Anthony against the wall, one of them elbowing him in the eyes while the
other two held him down by his neck, hands, and legs, making it impossible for him to fight
back. Kasia screamed at the top of her lungs and tried to pull the attackers away from Anthony,
but one of the men kicked her in the calf and then again in the head while she was bent over in
pain. They shouted:
"You're organizing a student strike, aren't you?" they sneered at Anthony before delivering
another punch to his face. "Well, we're warning you to back off. If you don't, next time we
meet, you won't leave with your limbs intact." The attackers then turned their attention to
Kasia, giving her a nasty look, "And as for your little girlfriend, well...you know what we mean,"
they taunted with a lewd grin before finally departing.
Anthony had to stay in hospital for a whole week, his eyes swelled so badly that they were
afraid he might lose his eyesight permanently. Fortunately his eyes recovered, but the injury on
the back of his head left him with recurring bad headaches that seemed incurable. Anthony,
Kasia and their fellow activists never talked about strikes again.
They had a plan to hold a voting with no fewer than ten thousand students, and if more than
60% of voters voted for strike, they would advocate for an island-wide strike as part of their
movement. But their actions were disturbed by school administrations, concerned parents, as
well as attacks or threats like the ones Anthony and Kasia had encountered.
Anthony never talked about that night with Kasia. Did Kasia feel guilty about Anthony’s attack?
Could she help it under such circumstances? What if… What if they had hurt Kasia, too? I
couldn’t bring myself to think about it any longer.
Now all the groups for social movements, including their Demosisto, disbanded after the
implementation of the National Security Law. From news reports in Taiwan, I learned that
Anthony moved to the UK after hiding in Taiwan for almost one year. In Hong Kong, he was
stalked and watched all the time, and he couldn’t fall asleep until dawn. The fear his attackers
had implanted in his mind had completely taken away his freedom.
And what had happened during Kasia’s imprisonment? Was she violated in any form? Should I
inquire with her directly? Should I seek help from experts? Were Kasia and Anthony still in
touch? What kinds of things would they exchange if they were? Should I exhaust all available
means to send Kasia to the UK, too? However, Kasia had renounced her UK citizenship in 2018,
when she decided to run for the office of the Legislative Council. Later her candidacy was
disqualified, with the excuse that her campaign for Hong Kong’s self-determination was the
proof of her negligence of the Basic Law. Why can’t I protect my girl at home and have to send
her away? How is Anthony’s mother? How did she cope with her son being tortured so much
and finally running away? How is Anthony now? Is he sleeping well now? What kind of people
are around him in the UK? Does he feel safe? Anthony is only 23 years old, and Kasia is only 26.
What I was doing when I was their age? It was in the early 1990s, I went to college, took a part-
time job in a gallery and later worked as a research project assistant for my professor. My
dream was to save some money and travel to Europe, to take the train across Europe –the sort
of travel that had fascinated me in novels and movies.
When I was Kasia’s age now, I was in love with her father. We dated, we took walks in the
bustling city, ate street food, and watched Hollywood movies in the cinema. We met up in the
college library and thought we could study together but we fooled around all the time. We
were almost care-free, the only thing we worried about was that we did not save enough
money to travel to Europe. Kasia worked with many boys during her activism, and they were all
great people, they had ideals, they took care of one another. But obviously with so many risks
in their lives, it was not time for them to develop any romantic relationship. Would Kasia be in
love one day, even as so many of her fellow activists were either in prisons or overseas?
Kasia was born in the summer of 1997, the year of Hong Kong’s handover from the UK to China.
Hong Kong was guaranteed that its political system would remain unchanged for 50 years.
Naturally it was assumed that in fifty years, China would be an open society, a freer place. The
promise was not kept, instead, propaganda began after fewer than twenty years, followed by
tightening control. Could we foresee its coming? Did we miss any chance to prevent it?
“Kasia, do you want to take Cornbread back?” I asked when Kasia came to the kitchen to take
the food I prepared for her. Cornbread was the cat she got from Daniel, before he left Hong
Kong and went to Boston for graduate school. Kasia loved Cornbread so much, and I think her
love of Cornbread was also a reflection of her friendship and comradeship with Daniel and
Daniel’s gay lover Ben. Ben was still in prison. He was sentenced to eighteen months
incarceration for “inciting unapproved political gatherings”, the same charge resulting in Kasia’s
imprisonment. Right after Kasia’s imprisonment, I took Cornbread to my cousin Marie, because
Cornbread showed extreme anxiety staying in a home without Kasia.
Kasia thought for a moment and said, “No.” She did not explain why she denied my suggestion.
Cornbread would be happy to unite with Kasia, why did Kasia not want to take Cornbread back?
She adored the kitty so much. Wouldn’t cuddling with Cornbread in bed bring Kasia comfort on
sleepless nights? I did not know how to pursue it, instead, I inquired carefully before Kasia
returned to her bedroom:
“Should we mail Ben something he might need in…?” I still couldn’t speak out the word
“prison”.
“Probably not, I was told that Ben will be released on bail soon. But we can mail some sanitary
pads to my former cellmates.” Kasia said. Female prisoners in the prison where Kasia was
incarcerated were not given enough sanitary pads, their families had to mail them. After Kasia’s
release, I realized Kasia’s menstruation during her incarceration had become irregular first,
then completely stopped. Whenever she got sanitary pads I mailed her, she gave them to her
cellmates.
Was her period normal now? Should I ask? Kasia ate less than she used to, she had lost some
weight. I would think losing appetite and having a sleep disorder might affect her menstrual
cycle.
Perhaps Ben would want Cornbread back after he was freed. Would Cornbread understand
what had been going on and why she was sent away so many times? In chaotic times, even a
kitty can not be left in peace. I had seen a photo of Daniel holding Cornbread, he smiled
happily, like a little child. They were all so young and so innocent, and now they are all political
prisoners or exiled. Daniel was awarded a full scholarship from Harvard, it was a kind of rescue
from the university.
Those who left Hong Kong and found asylum in other countries, such as Taiwan, the US or the
UK, often felt guilty for not staying in Hong Kong to continue their fight. They didn’t think they
deserved the right to be free when their fellow activists were still confined. They were worried
that their efforts outside of Hong Kong wouldn’t change much of Hong Kong’s situation, just like
Anthony told the reporter from Taiwan that after the Tiananmen Massacre, the exiled
dissidents failed to change the Chinese regime.
Is it possible at all to overturn an authoritarian regime? For millions of Hong Kongers, their
simple wish to have basic rights had not even been allowed. In the anti-extradition parades in
June, 2019, two million people took the streets to express their objections. Why couldn’t the
will of millions of people change anything? To an authoritarian regime, people are nothing but
ants. Authoritarians don’t give the slightest concern for humanity. To the authorities, millions of
people were no more than millions of ants, they could be stomped to death without any
empathy.
“Are you watching it, Kasia?” One afternoon I came back from grocery shopping and saw the TV
was on. It was very unusual that Kasia was watching something on the TV in our living room
these days, she always watched videos on her laptop in her bedroom.
“Yeah. I want to see how to cut hair myself. My laptop is too small to check out the details.”
“Oh? You want to cut your hair?”
Kasia had grown her hair long since she was a little girl.
“Yeah, so people won’t recognize me so easily.”
Did this mean Kasia was going out of our apartment? Should I have felt happy for her or
worried about her? Kasia had become a known person since the Umbrella Movement, she was
called Umbrella Princess. I never liked this nickname. The day of Kasia’s release, these two
words appeared in the news media again. I hoped those who were obsessed with heroism or
fairy tales would leave Kasia alone. After all, revolution couldn’t be achieved by any princess.
Now we have all learned about the cruelty of political movements under a dictator, and Kasia’s
princess look did not help her at all. I envisage Kasia had her hair cut short, she changes into a
completely different person, unimpressed and characterless. Then she walks into the multitude
and becomes unseen.
In today’s Hong Kong, if any change was possible at all, it would be achieved by millions of ants.
C. J. Anderson-Wu is a Taiwanese writer. In 2017 she published Impossible to Swallow—A Collection of Short Stories About The White Terror in Taiwan and in 2021 The Surveillance—Tales of White Terror in Taiwan. Based on true characters and real incidents, her works look into the political oppression in Taiwanese society during the period of Martial Law (1949-1987), and the traumas resulting from the state’s brutal violation of human rights. Currently she is working on her third book Endangered Youth— To Hong Kong. C. J. Anderson-Wu's stories and poems can be found in the Global Anthologies of Short Stories(US), Eastlit(Southeast Asia), Lunaris Review(Nigeria), Strands Lit Magazine(India), Short Story Avenue(US), Olney Magazine(US), So Fi Zine(Australia), An Capall Dorcha/The Dark House(Ireland), Short Story Town(US), Hennepin Review(US), MockingOwl Roost(US), Kitaab(Singapore & India), Bazinega(India), Main Squeeze Literary Journal(US) and Confetti Westchester Writers Workshop Magazine(US) among other literature journals.